The first time I was killed, or nearly so, came just past dawn on election day 1987 at a deserted crossroads in northern Haiti. I had endless time, in the half-second it took to collapse face-first in the dust, to savor the tableau before me: jackknifed in the intersection, a riderless motorcycle, front wheel still spinning; fanned across the ground beside it a sheaf of blackened election ballots, one or two still burning fitfully, the candidate’s dark face and white teeth grinning in the flames. I can see it still, this scene; still relish, sixteen years later, the pleasure afforded by its facile symbols. The shooters, though, I hardly glimpsed. A large sedan filled with militiamen, the car had barreled headlong down the street; but now, in my mind’s eye, it advances slowly and I see no faces, only the muzzle of the weapon, see no flashes, only the bursts of cement thrown up by the shells striking the walls. As my face thuds against the earth, I feel a feathery caress at the nape of my neck: the drizzle of plaster from the bullets tattooing the wall above.

The second time I was killed, or n…

Read the full text of this article in Stripping Bare the Body: Politics Violence War.